From Ashes to Snow
by whatifellinlovewith
Summary: "It's stupid, how he has her wishing she could enjoy Christmas, that it wasn't tainted with grief, has her imagining that she could enjoy it, if only he was at her side." Season 2 Christmas AU. For Cathey.


**From Ashes to Snow**

* * *

 _For Cathey._

* * *

It's strange, how the city can stay alight with life no matter the small tragedies it faces, how the street continues to flood with pedestrians and traffic despite the sight overhead. A shattered building, nothing but a fracture of the city, an empty space where the same life that bustles below used to calm in the darkness of night, pressure of the drowning force of a crowd fading to what used to be home.

Her home.

She feels it like a crack in her heart, longing for something so minute in the grand scheme of the last few days, so irrelevant given all else she could have lost. For a handful of rooms that had never felt like home—the she'd never allowed to feel like home—until she could no longer return to anything but crumbled walls, a pile of rubble where she used to lay her head down to sleep.

The winter chill bites at her cheeks, shudders along her spine, burns at her ears. A cold December breeze that seems to permeate the thick wool of her jacket, the thin irrelevance of her skin to root itself in her bones, numb the tips of her fingers and bruise to her mind left by the case.

By a serial killer and an obsession, an explosion and a victory that, standing where she does now, barely feels like one.

She recognizes the pain, the agony behind the tears stinging behind her eyes, futile grief for something so material. For all the things that had been locked within her apartment before it had blown up, burned her belongings to the ground and spread their ashes over the city that remain oblivious as long as they don't look up.

But she does, stares at a starless sky stained with a myriad of city light where her building used to be, her weight pressed against a streetlight, fingers circling her bare wrist despite the winter having cooled the leather of her glove, freezing against her skin.

Around her, snow falls like ash from the sky, lands on her cheeks only to melt, bleed along the same paths as the tears she can't hold back. She catches flakes in the palm of her hand, watches them fade into the black of her gloves as they melt, to remind herself that her home is no longer the white rain falling over the streets

And wiping at her cheek one last time, she turns to leave.

* * *

He'd called it her home, said it like the unfamiliar space of his loft could replace what she'd lost. Resolute and sure, ever present behind her, comfort and stress all at once, his words certain as her thoughts were a jumble and he'd given her a home again. Offered one to her on a silver platter, complete with a family who already inhabits it, a series of schedules she's unaware of, a reality she'd never dreamed of inhabiting.

The key remains clutched in her hand, cradled between shaking fingers as she presses it to the lock, hoping her tears haven't left evidence of their presence like burns across her features when she pushes the door open.

It's not her home, she could never accept it as such when it's _his_. Castle's and Alexis' and Martha's, their place to share that they'd offered to her, that she holds onto for a split second in her life, in the absence of anything else. But the spread of space, of modernity intertwined with comfort, family and organization isn't _hers._

No matter how much it felt like it could be when she'd first been escorted inside with a small bag of her belongings and fatigue drawing at her features.

But now the walls are covered in garlands of green and gold, mantels and furniture supports for figures of elves and trains and a gingerbread house that hadn't been there when she'd slipped away this morning. The living room frames not only a picturesque life she shouldn't be a part of, but a tree that stands impossibly tall, dotted with white lights and a story she _isn't_ a part of told in ornaments hanging from its branches.

It crushes her, a weight on her shoulders, on her heart. Memories a crash of pain in her chest to steal her breath, her balance, as she tugs the gloves from her hands, lets the coat fall from her shoulders, draws the boots from her feet. Stares at a spread of Christmas that shouldn't affect her as it does, shouldn't have her longing to escape.

She's used to decorations, to Christmas continuing in a blur around her a bubble of excitement she's long since escaped to hide in the terrors of murder investigations and mourning in a feeble attempt to ignore her own.

But not in what's supposed to be her temporary home, her escape from the rush of reality around her.

"Beckett?" comes a voice from the depths of the apartment, stilling her actions, her steps between the door and the staircase leading to the space that had been designated as hers. "How boring was paperwork?"

The laugh she chokes out is forced, hand tightening around the handle of her purse as her gaze flits over the Christmas tree before landing on him.

"Boring," she answers. "You should be glad you stayed home today."

Castle's smile is a bloom across his face, a brightness rivaled only by the sparkle of Christmas lights, and she hates her heart for stuttering at the sight, blames her dislike of the holiday season instead.

"I am," he says. "Look at all the decorating I got done. Alexis and Mother helped with the tree, of course." He pauses, gaze locking on hers, darkened and apologetic. "We should have waited for you."

She shakes her head, a broken rush of motion to match her words. "No. No, it's fine. It's your home, your family. You guys did a great job."

"But it's your home, too, at least for now," he argues. "We should have–"

Her movements are a stutter when she turns away from him, rushes towards the steps, turning back to look over her shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up over it, Castle," she tells him. "I'm just going to hop in the shower, okay?"

She doesn't wait for his response, forces her way upstairs, into the guest room that's now hers, flattens her back against the door when it closes behind her.

Staying with Castle would be much more tolerable if it wasn't only a few days until Christmas, but it's stupid to wish it wasn't now.

* * *

He _adores_ Christmas, rambling about it through dinner as Alexis nods along and Martha mocks his theatrics, as Kate sits across the table from him, poking at her food instead of eating, trying to zone out instead of listening, wishing she could silence his spiel. But Castle uses the joy, the so-called _magic_ , as a source of comfort that she can't bring herself to steal, not when he's already given her so much, when she's the one who inflicted the pain he's hiding from upon him.

So she cowers, pretends she's tired whenever asked if she's okay, watches Martha slip away for whatever social event beckons her tonight, Alexis disappear to do homework. And lifts her plate from the table when Castle does the same, offering to help despite her desire to hide from him, disguise her pain with absence.

She stands by his side as they do the dishes, ignoring the quiet domesticity they've fallen into, the ease of cohabitation when Christmas isn't an issue, in favor of tracing the pattern of the wooden floor. Until he's leaning over, nudging his shoulder with hers.

"Hey, if you're tired, you can go relax."

Her attention shifts to him, gaze locked on the floor, on the dish clutched between her hands. "I'm fine."

"You sure?" he asks. "You've been kinda…distant since you got home."

"I'm sure, Castle."

He's silent for a moment, a split second all she can ask for with him a constant presence at her side. Peace and quiet for blink as she faces the one part of his apartment not stained with Christmas cheer, with delight she wishes she could share in if only to lessen the ache in her chest.

"Do you do anything for Christmas?"

Her breath hitches, the sound muffled with a feigned cough, as she sets the dish down, takes another, doesn't answer.

"I mean, if you usually have your dad over, he can join us. Or, oh, if you have any little traditions, I know it's a little late, but we can find a way to incorporate them, or–"

"I don't celebrate Christmas, Castle."

He stills, her eyes falling closed, her glare turning away from him. The dried dish is set on the counter, the wet one he'd been holding dropped back into the sudsy water as he turns towards her.

"You don't?"

She shakes her head, still refusing to look at him because he'd already wedged his way into her life in ways she never thought possible, forced a friendship and a partnership upon her and usually it's _great._ But this is one wound that remains between them, a topic unspoken for the sake of maintaining what semblance of balance they hold, to keep past bruises to their relationship faded.

"Not since my mom died," she says. "Neither does my dad. We just– The decorations were still up when she died, and when we packed them up, if felt like…we were packing up Christmas forever."

" _Kate._ "

His hand lands on her back, forbidden pressure that she should step away from but allows for the strange radiation of comfort along her spine, her ribs, lacing it's way around her heart.

"It's not a big deal, Castle," she says. "I just don't celebrate. I work."

It is a big deal, though, that knowledge spread across his face when she finally looks up at him, catches the gleam of regret in his eyes as he traces the apartment, watches realization weigh heavy on his shoulders. And she wishes she had the courage to reach for him, too, remind him that Christmas is only a few days away and he shouldn't sacrifice his traditions for her benefit when she's merely a guest with a tragic past.

Wishes she could soothe his worries the same way his touch eases hers.

She expects him to push from there, either with rambling apologies or an onslaught of questions, but he doesn't. He pulls away, hand slipping from her body, returning to the pool of soapy water to pull out a plate, his gaze following his motions.

"I'll leave you leftovers, at least, so you can at least taste the deliciousness that is my Christmas dinner, okay?"

Her hands are already scrambling for the plate he's just washed, but her gaze cuts to him, a flutter of gratitude under her lashes that he turns just in time to see.

"Okay," she agrees.

And hopes the soft smile curling at her cheeks is enough to make him feel a little better.

* * *

She hates when the precinct is quiet, uniform officers and a cold case on her murder board her sole source of entertainment. Despises that the time of year that usually brings out the crazies seems to have silenced them this year, left her with the echo of her thoughts and the beat of her heart as a distraction from her own life.

It's not that she _wants_ to be dragged out to a crime scene in the freezing cold, cheeks tinged pink at the bite of a chill, eyes watering from the breeze. Or to spend the night pouring over financials or phone records searching for a lead she missed the first time or five. Or staring at the murder board as though a timeline and pictures will slide into place with a solution for the mystery she's paid to solve.

But the silence, the lack of case, allows her to sink into her mind, get lost in the blur that is her mind until her heart is racing, aching, longing.

For _him._

That's the worst part. That it's Christmas Eve and he's surely home with his family, but she wishes he was at her side, spouting stories or theories or some medley of the two. Smiling and asking if she hears jingle bells or Santa Claus in the New York sky as though it could be heard over the white noise that is New York City. Bringing coffee to her side, or hot chocolate flavored with candy canes for the special occasion.

It's stupid, how he has her wishing she could enjoy Christmas, that it wasn't tainted with grief, has her imagining that she _could_ enjoy it, if only he was at her side.

How she watches the clock tick to midnight, watches Karpowski step from the elevator to pick up her shift, longing to return to her pseudo-home that is actually his.

And she hates how she leaves wishing he's stayed up to wait for Santa Claus, or something like that, just so she can wish him a merry Christmas and watch joy spread across his face as she does.

* * *

He is awake when she slips into the loft, trying to be silent only for a gasp to fall from her lips at the sight before her. And though he's not waiting for Santa Claus like she'd forced herself not to imagine, her heart trips in her chest, pulse a stammer of emotion like the words she forces from her chest when she turns towards him.

"What are you doing up?"

She asks as though it's not obvious, as though he's not standing in a setting that is wholly too romantic, still wearing jeans and a red button down, illuminated only by the dim artificial light from the kitchen and the flicker of candles. The smile on his face is tentative, shy, laced with insecurity she never associates with him, his hands tucked into his pockets only making him look smaller, dwarfed by the night, by the city, by his fears.

He doesn't speak as she sheds her jacket, the layers of fabric upon which snow melts, and hangs it up, pulls off her gloves and her boots and sets her bag aside. His hand is held out towards her, the other motioning to the table, silence dragging on as she steps towards him, the pad of her footsteps the only sound until she reaches his side, can glance at the table, at what he's done.

She doesn't slip her hand into his offered one, no matter how much her traitorous heart wants her to, how much she longs for the warmth of his palm against hers.

The table is a display from a magazine, a white cloth draped over it, a main candle framed by a wreath and surrounded by food that looks nothing like she expected, like it was already dug into during his earlier dinner. Tea lights flicker and burn, light up the array of decor around them that seems to have diminished since she first left for work.

"What did you do?" she asks this time, looking up at him.

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes downcast with insecurity and she almost wishes she could reach out, smoothe the creases of fear from his features with reassurance that anger doesn't simmer within her veins, but something else. Something far more forbidden that loops around her heart and has it doing a somersault in her chest for reasons she doesn't care to examine.

Not when Castle is motioning to the table with a flick of his wrist, his other hand hovering between them like he wants to reach out to touch her.

"I know I promised to leave you leftovers," he says, "but I didn't want you to spend your Christmas sitting in the dark, eating by yourself. You deserve a Christmas, too, Kate."

She nods, slow with understanding, turning from him back to the spread of Christmas food, the setup for two people that resembles a date far too much.

"But if you would rather eat on your own, I can go, or if you me to get rid of all this," he motions to the tale, smile sheepish when she turns her gaze back to him, "that works too."

The hum slips from her throat, a rumble through her chest, but silence drags on, uncertainty swirling in her mind, a rushed debate with herself as to which words should tumble from her lips. A quiet muffle of white noise at her ears, of flickering fire around her, his breathing thick, heavy with anticipation to match hers, still recovering from the shock, the breathless, stupid affection pooling in her middle.

"Is it too much?"

Laughter spills from her chest. Because it probably is too much, this scene that is far too romantic, the gesture far too sentimental, for the quiet, friendship, silently budding feelings welling between them. For the fragile heart stuttering in her chest, broken emotional beats laced with gratitude more than fear.

It _should_ be too much.

But her gaze flicks to his, a smile playing at the corners of her lips, his tentative one painted in the orange glow of candlelight.

"No," she says, a whisper that has his face lighting up, the flood of butterflies in her stomach multiplying. "Are you going to join me?"

He bounces on his toes at that, a glimpse of the excited, juvenile side to him she knows far too well, before bobbing his head. But instead of reaching for his seat, he rushes around to pull hers from the table, to motion for her to sit.

She would usually hate it.

She _should_ hate it.

But she's hiding her smile with a dip of her head when she drops onto her seat.

* * *

The urge to swirl her finger in the spread of chocolate across her plate, press her fingertip to her tongue and taste the remnants of sweetness as it bursts through her mouth has her hands clenching at her sides. But her gaze stays locked on the plate, smudges of sweetness against white china keeping her attention from the man sitting across from her.

Because as much as licking the chocolate from her plate would be inappropriate for the beautiful Christmas dinner he'd provided, the urges that well when she dares to look at him are far more forbidden. Like that to reach over, smooth her thumb over the corner of his lips to wipe the traces of dessert that stains his skin, or to kiss it away with the press of her lips to his.

She swallows against it, forces her mind to cease to acknowledge the desires she's long since kept dampened within her system, a subtle heat in her veins that she could always control.

That she won't give up on just because they're living under the same roof, _temporarily._ Because he gave her a Christmas dinner that didn't have her wanting to flee to a place where she could hide from the onslaught of memories that arise with the season.

But as silence lingers, heavy on her shoulders, allowing her to get lost in her own mind, she forces her gaze upwards, timing her blink with the split second during which his tongue pokes out to taste the chocolate from his lips. Her hands shove her plate away from her, an exaggerated sigh heaving at her chest as she sinks into her chair.

"That was delicious, Castle," she tells him, watching his grin widen at the compliment, his spine straighten with confidence. "Did you make it all?"

He scoffs, amusement shining in the flecks of silver in his eyes. "Let my mother cook Christmas dinner? I'm trying really hard to _not_ poison you, Beckett," he says. "But Alexis did make the stuffing and help with dessert."

She offers him a smile at that, soft affection growing louder at the words, the quiet love in his voice as he speaks of his daughter. "Well, you guys did a great job."

His gaze lingers on hers, a glint of joy shining with every flicker of the candles around them.

She could get lost in it, the blue of his eyes when it's flooded with such reverence. For her. For the moment. But she won't, forces her gaze away just as he speaks again.

"Thank you," he says. "For going along with this. You were great Christmas company."

"You were a great Christmas host, Castle," she returns, the flush of her cheeks hopefully drowned in the darkness of night, disguised by the warmth of dim lighting. "Thank you, for planning this."

"Well, I do have one more thing for you."

He's out of his seat before her gaze can snap up to him, protests dying on her lips at his absence. She hears him skid across the floor, the rush of air through the loft as he laughs, the rustle of tree branches making her turn to face him. He retrieves a small box wrapped in gleaming green paper, a silver bow situated atop the gift. It fits in the palm of his hand, is cradled to his chest as he returns to her side.

She's staring at it when he sets it on the bare portion of table before her, turning back to him when he starts to walk away.

"I didn't get you anything," she admits, regret knotting in her chest. "Well, I did, but—"

It's among the cloud of ash that had floated into the sky, victim of the disintegration of her life, her belongings, to a bomb that made debris fall like snow.

His eyes shine with understanding, hands landing on the tabletop as his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for her, wrap her fingers with his in silent support, in a feeble attempt to erase the memories.

"Your apartment blew up less than a week ago. The last thing you should be thinking about is a Christmas gift for your annoying shadow."

His lips quirk at the end, happy and teasing but doing nothing to lift the guilt that clenches at her heart. Nothing to ease how _wrong_ it feels to be sitting in his home, after her best Christmas dinner in the blur of a decade since her mother passed, his gift clutched between her hands with his empty of anything she could offer him.

"Besides, don't think of it as Christmas present," he adds. "I would have given it to you whether it was Christmas or not."

She hesitates, despite his promises, fingers hovering over the silver tuft of ribbon before the hope in his eyes has her tearing it away, pulling a strip of wrapping paper with it. Nothing is revealed by a glimpse of the box, kraft brown and plain and making her brows furrow as she tears away the rest of the paper.

Her breath spills from her chest in a broken stutter when she pops the box open, reveals its contents with her heart tumbling. Shaking fingers close around the leather band within, draw the familiar watch from its cradle of red tissue paper so she can hold it up, examine the spin of arrows more closely.

"My father's watch."

Her gaze flicks up to his, tears burning behind her eyes, blinked away before they can well. He's staring back at her with a smile, face pinched with that same insecurity she saw when she first walked in.

"I found it in the rubble and had it fixed," he offers, an unnecessary explanation when her fingers are already stumbling over latches to undo it, slip it back onto her wrist where it belongs. "Want some help?"

Embarrassment stains her cheeks as she nods, emotion ruining her coordination as she reaches over, hands the watch to him. He undoes it carefully, fingers skimming along the protruding bones of her wrist as he situates the band carefully, adjusts it so the clock is centered.

When she looks back up at him, his eyes are locked on her, bright and happy, hopeful like she rarely sees. His fingers linger on her skin, tracing the ridge where wrist bleeds into hand, and she wants to reach over, wrap him in his arms or fuse her lips to his or _something_ that can communicate the gratitude flooding her system.

The affection she's no longer able to ignore.

But actions fail her, fear anchoring her to her seat, forcing her to settle for wavering words that grate past the lump of emotion in her throat.

"Thank you."

* * *

She helps with the dishes, despite his protests that she just finished a long shift at work and should be curled up comfortable in his guest room, still recovering and waiting for Santa. But he smiles as they share the tasks, his fingers drifting over hers every time he hands her a dish that needs drying. Until they're set back in the cabinets and her bones are weary, weighted with sleep, gaze drawn to the stairs as he tucks the final plates back into their place.

"You should go to bed now."

Her eyes snap back to him, the knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

She's completely idiotic, not wanting to slip away, curl up on the bed in his guest room without his presence nearby. That she lived without him for years, spent far too much time imagining him to be unbearable if she didn't have the escape her apartment offered. How a few days of him being impossibly sweet, giving her all she needs and the support their last case had demanded without a moment's hesitation has her softening to him in ways she never thought possible.

It's even more stupid that she longs not for his presence in her bed, but in her life. That even as moonlight fades to sun and night bleeds into morning, she would rather continue to enjoy his company that give into the tug of fatigue at her mind.

"Okay," she responds after a moment, swallowing back the rise of longing in her chest. "You should too. Santa won't come if you stay up all night."

His grin widens at that, beautifully sweet, a glimpse of childlike glee that the holiday season hasn't brought her in years, but still lights up his face. "Of course, but that goes for you, too, Beckett," he says. "Goodnight."

Her nod is slow, hesitant, as she forces herself to turn away from him, draw towards the stairs that will soon separate them. But as soon as she reaches the bottom of the staircase, hand settling on the banister, his gasp echoes through the room, followed by a spill of quiet laughter that has her turning towards him with furrowed brows.

He responds not with words, but the upwards flick of her gaze that has her insides clenching with anxiety or anticipation or some strange mixture of both.

She lifts her eyes to the sky, finds a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling.

"It wasn't me," sputters Castle when she looks back at him, a teasing smirk drawing at the corners of her mouth. "I bet it was Mother. She wants me to kiss you, you know."

It's awkward, a flustered scramble of words that has amusement bubbling in her chest. She watches him fall silent, cheeks burning red at the admission.

"But we don't have to. Kiss, I mean," he rushes to add. "It's just a stupid tradition."

She ignores that part, lingering under the mistletoe when she should be fleeing, taking the escape he's offered and let the press of his lips to hers remain a mystery her mind tries to solve as she dreams.

But she doesn't.

"Your _mother_ wants you to kiss me?" she says, the words thicker than she intended, passing through her lips as a husked huff of amusement rather than the teasing lilt she'd been hoping for.

His eyes flare bright at that, darken at her tone, his spine still stalk straight, shoulders still square and tense, but his stance softens at the realization that she's not angry.

She could stop there, _should_ stop there, offer him the relief he needs and then disappear. And yet her feet stay rooted to the ground, her inhibitions dying after her latest brush with death, after the show of friendship, of kindness, that he's presented.

"What about you?" she breathes.

His whole body tenses at the question, silent sputters falling from his lips like failed attempts to speak, to argue or answer or say something. All he manages is a breath, a single syllable that has the heat in her veins burning brighter, hotter.

" _Kate._ "

"It is tradition, Castle," she says, forcing the words out, following them with an order when he still doesn't move. "Come here."

He rushes to her side, tripping over nothing until he's planted in front her, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes tracing every line of her face as though searching for something. His breath is trapped in his chest, lips pressed tightly together, nerves radiating from him as much as she imagines they are from her.

This isn't _her_. This isn't something she does.

She runs. She always runs from him, from her feelings, the desires she's managed to silence since he first sat across from her in an interrogation room.

But not today, it seems.

His breath rushes from his chest when her hands settle on his sides, words still a messy rumble of uncertainty.

"I promise this isn't want I intended for tonight," he says. "I just wanted to give you a Christmas dinner."

She nods, eyes locked on his the whole time. "I know."

And she lifts onto her toes, motions slow, hands pressing harder against his sides as his fly to her hips, steadying her and sending her whole world teetering off balance at once. Clutching at her, holding her close and making her want to run, making her lean forward and dusk her lips to his.

It's fast, a quick brush of lips that turns her world upside down, too _good_ for something so simple.

She already knows it will haunt her.

His hands fall from her hips, hers slipping from his sides, and he stares at her, shocked, as she offers him the best smile she can muster when her mind is spinning, heart a pounding race in her chest.

"Thank you," she says, a breath between them that reverberates through the air until it's drowned by her rushed footsteps as she makes her way upstairs.

When she curls up in her bed, body no longer draped in her work clothes, anxious tension left by her actions dissipating as she falls asleep, it not images of snow melting into ash that flashes behind her closed eyes.

It's an echo of the press of his lips to hers.

* * *

She wakes early the next morning, her body attuned to such mornings even though her shift doesn't start until the afternoon. The clock on her nightstand tells her it's barely past six, bright red numbers cutting into her consciousness, doing nothing to assuage her desire to climb out of bed, slip into the kitchen in search of her morning coffee.

Still in her pajamas, she leaves her bedroom, makes her way downstairs with carefully quiet steps as to not wake anyone. But when she reaches the living space, it's not the expected emptiness that she finds.

Castle's awake, standing by the tree so he can stare out the window, feet surrounded by a flood of wrapped gifts. From where she stands at the base of the stairs, she can see his hair still mussed from sleep, the tee pulled over his torso as his own sleepwear, the mug cradled between his hands.

Her body still hums with need for her own morning brew, but it's quieted, nothing but a blip in comparison to the desire that draws her towards him instead, has her stepping into the sliver of space at his side.

He jumps at the brush of her shoulder to his, turning towards her with worried eyes that fade to something of soft happiness to match his smile.

"You're up early," he says.

"I could say the same about you," she returns.

He shrugs one shoulder, still smiling down at her like she hung the moon that had painted his loft in light the night before. Enough to have her wondering it was excitement for Christmas day that has him awake at such an hour, or something else. Something like the race of thoughts that had followed her through her early morning routine, like the memory that had played on repeat in her dreams all night.

Something like her.

"Castle?"

He hums, the sound rumbling from low in his chest, enough to light her body afire, burn through her inhibitions.

Her fingers splay at the back of his neck, chest battering itself against her ribs when she lists into him, presses her lips to his for a second time.

It's harder this time, slower and sweeter, drawing a contented sigh from her chest before they've so much as separated, making a smile curl bright and happy at the corners of his mouth when she pulls away.

"Merry Christmas," she offers, a shy whispers that only makes his smile bloom brighter.

He doesn't return the sentiment, must be well aware that it's not what she's searching for today, that he's already given her a glimpse of merriness that she never expected would topple her will to fight her desires any longer. He simply reaches out, curls an arm around her middle and draws her closer so they're pressed together, side to side, both wedged against his Christmas tree and staring out the window.

Her head sinks against his shoulder, smile not faltering when she realizes snow tumbles from the sky.

It no longer looks like ash.

* * *

 **It's a day late, but Merry Christmas to all who celebrate! And especially to Cathey, my Secret Santa-ee this year, who asked for a season two AU in which Christmas happens while Beckett is living at the loft post-Boom. I hope you liked it and had a great holiday season, Cathey. Thank you for being so amazing.**

 **And, as always, immense gratitude goes to Lindsey for her beta work on this story.**


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